


Throw Her to the Wolves

by Raisincookies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A/B/O, Adult Content, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Coming of Age, F/F, F/M, Kidnapping, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raisincookies/pseuds/Raisincookies
Summary: A young female omega finds out she belongs with the Avengers pack.  She needs to be raised in her late teens by them before she becomes of age; but nothing is a plain sailing as they would hope for.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Natasha Romanov (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s), Tony Stark/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 101
Kudos: 248





	1. Chapter 1

You sat on the coach, clutching your backpack, your fingers toying idly with the fraying worn end of one of the shoulder straps. You gazed out at the impressive skyscraper; it’s sweeping form stretched high up into the air and curled out in a gleaming mass of concrete and metal against the deep blue of the sky. The early morning sunshine glistened against its windows and lit them up in hundreds of tiny explosions of light, shiny and beckoningly against its drab Manhattan neighbours. The signage of ‘Avengers’ boldly emblazoned its facia.

Your teachers voice droned monotonously in your ears as she addressed you and your classmates from the front of the coach; the usual beratements of behaviour and manners and respect. You were ambassadors of your school; don’t forget to act like it. You had heard the speech before, many times, and you briefly wondered if she would eventually give up; resign herself to her students behaving however they pleased despite her early reprimands and empty threats which held no weight.

You felt your friend Peter sigh heavily beside you, you sensed his impatience, and you turned your head to shoot him a knowing grin; he rolled his brown eyes in response. His eagerness to begin his day palpable.

Eventually you were filed off the bus, you stumbled down the steps and into the broad sunshine, only to be divided into one of three groups. Some of you would be visiting Shield and speaking to them about future career paths as field agents or within their intelligence sector, others would be visiting the Stark labs and hearing about apprenticeships within their R&D and tech divisions. The rest, including you, would be visiting their Corporate Directorate. You and Peter sulked that you wouldn’t be in the same group as one another; but that didn’t stop you linking arms as you made your way into the building.

Your worn converse slid clumsily on the polished and buffed floor tiles; the corporate chic décor would have been the wet dreams of any one of your ambitious classmates, but not you. The shiny, gleaming brightness of polished faux marble, plush cream leather waiting areas and grand dangling modern chandeliers which spilled somewhere from the atrium above left you wanting to find the nearest supply closet and hide until further notice. Your party stood out against the backdrop of immaculately tailor suits or pristine smocks with your mash of beaten sneakers and jeans combos.

Your group was quickly divided from the rest and directed up, up and up to the 50th floor; the view from the windows left your feet wobbling but, in spite of that, you couldn’t help but step slowly up to the glass and take in the spectacular sight of Manhattan and beyond. Dotted before you a sea of discoloured rooftops which lay like a concrete forest canopy across the city below. The people milling on the sidewalks were barely visible whilst the traffic choked the streets like miniature toy cars. You would have sworn it was a black and white photo if it hadn’t been for the vibrant green Central Park splodge in the middle and brilliantly shockingly blue sky which bathed the city in its light all the way to the sparking Hudson. Beyond that the detail petered out like a Monet where only smudges of muted colour existed.

Your guide called your name and you reluctantly tore yourself from the calming bliss and back to the tour. Your guide spoke you through the monotony of the office; you couldn’t tell if her enthusiasm was genuine, but she pointed out the different teams with a passion which you couldn’t quite fathom. Her blond hair pulled into a pristine bun as she gestured to the office fray with manicured crimson nails. You zoned out as she described in detail the vital role of the office workers; declaring that the work of the Avengers simply wouldn’t be possible without the help of those resources within this very room. You internally scoffed at the thought that processing expenses was somehow on a par with saving the world from Aliens. Your cynicism faded as the unignorable aroma of the office enveloped you; the fresh fragrance of citrus, notes of grapefruit and mandarin tickled your nose. You inhaled it deeply and filled your lungs; it left your head woozy as you glided after your classmates; the buzz of the office dissipated as you floated.

It felt like only a moment later that your guide finally announced it was time for lunch and you emerged from your trance; fresh air diluted the perfumed air. Your head cleared and you wondered where your morning had gone; you met with Peter and you both agreed to eat your paper bag sandwiches on the back steps of the building. It was cheaper than the canteen. The fresh October air woke you from your lethargy and instantly unwound your coiled muscles. You settled easily and smiled happily as Peter exuberantly described his visit to the tech team; that was his scene. He excelled at his computing class and hobbied at picking apart old computers he stumbled across at goodwill; you had lost count of the number of times you’d helped him carry something home which he’d fished out of the dumpster. You were lost in conversation, giggling merrily as he comedically dissected Flash’s latest dumb idea when a figure plonked themselves down on the steps beside you. Peter’s colourful analysis came to a halt as you both you looked up.

You blinked a few times in shocked and looked to Peter as he openly gawked. His mouth opening and closing and his Adams Apple bobbing nervously. Quickly his mouth curled into a wide smile and his eyes shone in jubilation. He pointed his index finger.

“Oh my gosh!” he exclaimed, the excitement in his voice was clear. “You’re Natasha Romanoff. You’re the Black Widow. You closed the portal when the Chitauri attacked; and, and” he gasped for breath and clutched his hair in his hands in disbelief.

She smirked back at him, flashing a row of pearly white teeth. You blinked at her, not quite believing she was there. Natasha Romanoff in all her superhero glory. Her bobbed auburn curls danced in the breeze and, despite its casual implication, her black Henley, leather pants and combat boots screamed that she was ready for anything; if anything kicked off. Her features were softer than they appeared in the newspapers, the apples of her cheeks glowed rosily and her emerald eyes sparkled. Her plump lips twitched in amusement.

Generally, you weren’t overly comfortable around strangers, but her scent calmed you slightly. White sand beaches and fresh grapefruit, mandarin and vetiver. You consciously had to stop yourself from leaning closer and breathing deeper.

She tilted her head and focus her eyes curiously upon you; you swallowed nervously and fidgeted with a loose thread on the cuff of your sweater.

“You’re here with the school.” She said. You took her words as more of a statement rather than a question but nodded at her shyly anyway.

She hummed thoughtfully.

“What age are you,” she asked. Her eyes never leaving your face.

You opened your mouth tentatively.

“Seventeen,” Peter supplied eagerly as he stuffed the remainder of his third sandwich into his mouth. “We both are,” he mumbled around chewing his food.

A flicker of frustration danced over her face, tightening it for a split second before returning; serene and composed. Her eyes flickered back to Peter for a moment and she gave him a soft smile before refocusing on you again.

“So, what’s the deal? You guys touting to work here after you graduate? After high school; after college?” Her eyes studied your face and you shifted awkwardly.

Again, Peter took the lead.

“I am,” he emphasised his inference to himself. “I want to study Robotics and Advanced AI. Stark Industries is where it’s at.” He praised.

“But not you.” She deduced almost to herself. “Why not?” She asked, cocking her head; her eyes sparked with curiosity.

You balled your sandwich wrapper in your fist and give a quick shrug.

“I don’t know,” you told her slowly, quietly. “I guess, it’s kind of busy. A lot going on. A lot of people.”

“Her personal idea of hell,” Peter quipped with a laugh. “I believe the exact description was the tenth circle.”

Your cheeks turned a scarlet hue and you swivelled your head to look at him incredulously.

“Peter!” you ground out in embarrassment.

This may not have been Natasha Romanoff’s building, but she did know the owners; you were mortified at the thought of insulting her. Of pissing her off. She was Black Widow.

Peter simply choked out a laugh, “what? He’s not going to care.” He turned to Natasha with mirth in his eyes, “are you going to tell him?”

Her eyes twinkled playfully as she looked between you both, “I might.”

“Please don’t,” you asked imploringly.

“I’m sure it’s,” you paused as you wracked your head to think of something positive to say but all you could picture was the cavernous space of the open plan office. Packed with people attached to telephones and computers, buzzing with noise and activity. Miles and miles of blueish carpet tiles and magnolia painted walls and glass cubed conference rooms. Health and safety posters and photocopied signs about office etiquette. Uniformed potted plants which may or may not have been plastic.

“It’s huge.” You croaked meekly.

Natasha’s lip curled in amusement, “huge?” she repeated.

You nodded emphatically, “yes, impressively big.”

Her amusement gently pulled into a wide smile, “I’ll tell him that. He’ll like that.”

You didn’t have time to respond as Peter tugged your arm, “it was amazing to meet you, Ms Romanoff. We’ve got to boost. We’re due back.”

You shot her a meek smile and quickly looked away as you rose from the concrete step and turned to follow Peter back inside; halting as Natasha called your name. You turned and looked at her expectantly. You were met with a warm smile.

“It was nice to meet you,” she told you. She sounded sincere.

You smiled back shyly.

“It was nice to meet you, too.” You thumbed over your shoulder in the direction of the tower. “I better…” you trailed off and pulled the strap of your backpack tighter over your shoulder.

Her smile widened and she nodded.

“Yeah, don’t be late.”

You turned on your heel and quickly caught up with Peter. You glanced back. She was gone.

Comments, feedback and thoughts are most welcomed :)


	2. Chapter 2

The coach ride back to school seemed to take forever in the late afternoon traffic; it seemed to be at a standstill for more time that you actually spent travelling. Why you couldn’t have taken the subway was beyond you. You passed the time by idly people watching as you journeyed through at a glacial pass; Peter rabbiting in your ear at about advanced electronics and digital DNA, you made sure to pepper his obvious excitement with murmurs of acknowledgment. He knew fine that you had no idea what he was talking about but his exuberance to share his day was cascading from his every pore.

You were happy for him; he had found his passion and one which he would be accepted in. A lifetime of coding and robotics lay on his horizon; he was smart and driven enough to make it a reality. You on the other hand, you were potentially destined for a lifetime of open plan office servitude. Nothing to look forward to but the clock hands creeping ever nearer to your next timetabled coffee break; perhaps the added bonus of a stale conference room cookie to boost the monotony of your day.

It was a depressing thought and your frown deepened as the streets crawled by. Eventually you made it back to Queens and started for home; you and Peter lived in a similar direction so cut the same path as you normally did on your way back from school. Somehow his enthusiasm for the day hadn’t faded and, if anything, it had grown as he launched into a play by play retelling of your impromptu meeting with the Black Widow, as if you hadn’t been there, and the moment when he spotted Bruce Banner through the window of one of the labs.

Something in your chest ached at the brief memory of citrus which tickled at your nose; you rubbed your sternum through your sweatshirt as you both trudged along the sidewalk; the inclusion of the Avengers in the conversation was a welcomed relief and you allowed yourself to grin as you moved on from the foreign topic of computers and tech.

“Mom, I’m home,” you called out as you yanked your key from the lock. Your backpack was slung onto the telephone chair in the hallway and you toed off your sneakers; nudging them under the bench and out of sight. The hardwood floors creaked under you weight as your feet followed the aroma of garlic and baking bread through to the kitchen. Your mouth water at the sight of the steaming lasagne, its cheesy top layer still bubbling after only just having been plucked from the oven.

She greeted you with a smile as she shoved a fist full of cutlery in your direction, “set the table, Bude?”

You groaned at the nickname and rolled your eyes as you bundled the knifes and forks in your hand. You couldn’t pretend to be mad though; the sweet comfort of being home was a welcomed relief after spending the day on unfamiliar soil and surrounded by unfamiliar people. Gone were the clinical hallways and sterile reception areas; here you wrapped in memories. The kitchen being a labour of love with its mismatch and weathered cabinets, the countertop a smorgasbord of scalded pot marks and chopping wounds. The windowsills choking with potted herbs in hand painted pots, the more novice of which had been your first solo art projects which your mom still refused to part with.

Your dad appeared, already having changed from his work suit.

“Dinner about ready?” he asked before declaring dramatically. “I’m starving over here.”

You prodded his rounding belly

“Doesn’t look like it, old man.” You retorted cheekily.

He huffed with faux annoyance and playfully shoved you in the direction of your chair as you mother let out an amused giggle. He narrowed his eyes at her and pointed at her with an index finger.

“Stop encouraging her, it’s your fault she’s like this.”

She chuckled and her eyes twinkled in mirth as she pushed the salad bowl in his direction.

“Yes, dear.” She responded placatingly, “now please make yourself useful and put this on the table.”

Dinner passed quickly as your parents grilled you about your day. You tried your best to muster up some enthusiasm, solely for their sake. You knew they worried about what you were going to do after you graduated High School; someone in your designation only really had a handful of choices. Since you presented, your future options had gotten decidedly narrower. Even if you had wanted to you wouldn’t be permitted into academia; the entry to those places wasn’t just decided on how well you did on your SATs or how big your daddy’s bank balance was. There was also a designation requirement which your biology would never meet. The best you could hope for was one of those administrative jobs which filled you with dread; but at least you would have a salary, health insurance and decent working conditions unlike the majority of your other options.

You knew why your parents were pushing for this, you had been dealt a bad hand and this was your best play. They didn’t want to see you unhappy so you would fake it the best way you knew how; you parroted back the importance of the job, the exact words your guide from the morning had used slid from your mouth like clumps of gelatine whilst they nodded along and beamed with delight. Your performance was exhausting and by the end of the evening the days tension had creeped into you bones and left you muscles tight and aching.

You longed for sleep but even in the calm solitude of your bedroom it did not come; you twisted and turned between the sheets but comfort eluded you. Your mattress left like a bed of rocks and the house was unbearably hot due to your mothers overzealous affinity for the central heating. Eventually you reached beneath the curtains and cracked the window; you snuggled under your blankets as the night air cooled the room. Your eyelids closed heavily and you fell asleep to the calming warmth of vetiver and sandalwood.

The next you opened your eyes it was morning; your curtains twitched in the breeze as rain spattered on the window, the sky outside covered in a thick blanket of greying clouds. Summer was definitely gone and from here on in the temperatures would surely dip and the days would grow shorter. You weren’t complaining; fall was your favourite season and Christmas was always the best time of year. Not even your own cynicism could ruin a frosty December day wrapped up on the sofa, watching crappy Hallmark movies, drinking hot chocolate and making gum paper chains in a myriad of festive colours.

Clumsily you untangled yourself from your bedsheets; the bathroom you shared with your parents was clear and you jumped in the shower, avoiding washing your hair out of nothing but sheer laziness. Instead you scooped it up into a messy bun and secured it with a stretched elastic which looked like it had seen better days.

You dressed hurriedly when you saw the time; it was nearing 11AM and your stomach growled at its need for food. Dark grey skinny jeans and a chunky red sweater came to hand and you tossed them on before heading down; half way down the stairs your nose caught the scent of a freshly baked lemon meringue or key lime pie. You automatically headed to the kitchen but it was empty and quiet, with the exception of the aged wooden wall clock which chinked with each passing second.

“Mom?” you called out.

She appeared silently in the doorway which led to the lounge; her face was tight and nervous. You looked at her in confusion. She licked her lips and walked to you, placing her hands lightly on your shoulders and rubbed them in a way which you supposed was trying to be comforting. It wasn’t though, you sensed something wrong but she spoke before you had a chance.

“Sweetheart,” her voice wobbled with uncertainty.

You furrowed your brow in confusion, “what’s wrong?” you asked.

“Nothing,” she told you adamantly, her fingers tightened around you and dug into your flesh through your sweater. “Nothing is wrong, sweetheart.”

She licked her lips again and you looked back at her doubtfully.

She glanced over her shoulder then turned back to you lowering her voice.

“There are some people here to see you; and I want you to know that if you want them to go you just have to say.”

You looked over her shoulder at the doorway.

“To see me?” you questioned in confusion.

Her warm fingers clasped your jaw and tilted your head back again; your eyes met hers and she looked at you imploringly.

“I’m serious. “You’ll tell me?”

You nodded your assent.

Nothing could have prepared you as you stepped over the threshold of the room; your mothers guiding hand placed gently on the small of your back. You were grateful as it steadied you from the shock as you halted mid-step and teetered on the ball of your foot. Piercing green eyes met yours and your jaw slackened as you stared. Natasha Romanoff rose steadily to her feet followed in quick succession by her companion and your father who had been sitting opposite them in his usual armchair. Your heart pounded and you wondered why she was here. The air around you stilled like a paused video game and the colours of your world grew bolder; her eyes glistened with the brightest greens and her hair shown like copper. You blinked slowly; confused by the vibrancy and tried to make it clear. The scent of lemon meringue pie twisted with spiced apple cake and intensified; its warm heat enveloped you and it warmed your body as though you basked in the sunshine. It calmed you to the point you were able to breathe again without thinking you were about to vomit.

The sound of your fathers voice eventually tore your eyes from hers; that heated sunshine faded and you blinked away the vibrancy of those bold colours until they faded back to normal. You looked at him in confusion.

“This is Natasha and Clint,” your father introduced; his voice strained.

You looked at the stranger, Clint. Clint. Clint Barton. Your eyes widened in recognition as he cocked his head at you, his mouth pulled into a lazy smile.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he murmured.

Your eyes flickered between the two of them until you father suggested you all sit; he returned to his chair and an awkward silence fell. You took the other armchair whilst your mother perched on the arm, acting a human barricade between you and two Avengers commandeering the sofa. They huddled together; Clint clasped one of Natasha’s hands in both of his; his thumb slid soothingly over the backs of her knuckles as they studied you. You felt naked, exposed and a small part of you desperately longed to hide behind your mom as though you were a child again.

You stared back at them; Natasha looked too chic be sitting on your mom’s battered floral sofa; surrounded by her miss-match décor and random trinkets. Clint also looked wildly out of place; with his fashionably style fauxhawk and his legs bent awkwardly as he tried to make himself comfortable on the low settee. They made a comical sight in your suburban picket fenced setting.

They glanced at one another and smiled like they were both privy to a secret that nobody else knew; their eyes sparkled and they both let out nervous laughs. Clint tilted his head and gestured a silent invitation to her.

“On you go,” he invited.

Natasha turned from him and looked at you, her face breaking into a wide smile.

“You’re our omega,” she blurted out in excitement.

You froze.

Thanks for reading and I really hope you enjoyed. Comments and feedback are welcomed


	3. Chapter 3

You trailed a cheese fry through a puddle of siracha mayo and pushed it into your mouth; chewing apprehensively as you listened to Natasha talk. She was practically vibrating in the booth of the diner as she tried her best to school her excitement; she wasn’t being very successful, you suspected that was what was practically tripling your usual level of anxiety.

She dropped her bombshell in your parents lounge and what ensued was the most awkward silence you had ever been witness to. More awkward in that it concerned you. Your stomach wobbled and your head suddenly felt like it was stuffed with cotton. She couldn’t surely mean. Completely unsure of how you were meant to react to her news you did the only thing you could think; you had rapidly excused yourself upstairs with the excuse that you’d left your curling irons on. It was a lie, you knew it was a lie, they knew it was a lie and your parents knew it was lie. It was evidenced by the unwashed bird nest which currently occupied your head.

It took the best part of 20 minutes for your mom to calm you down and halt your apprehensive pacing; mostly after she had inadvertently spilled what exactly Natasha had meant by saying ‘our omega’. Theirs. All of theirs. Their pack. All five of them. You wanted to die in mortification that your novice omega was being actively sought out to join their ménage pack of alpha and betas; and your father knew! Oh good god, your father knew! Your virgin brain wanted to die at the mere thought that your parents, your dad, would know you would have multiple sexual partners. Your face burned and your palm’s sweated; you’d never be able to look your father in the eye again. Which was fine, he would probably disown you for being a harlot anyway and you’d never need to see your family again. Your copy of The Scarlet Letter was burning a hole tauntingly on your bookshelf. This was too much.

Somewhere in the back of your brain you knew you were being irrational. You hadn’t even met the majority of the pack, you had no idea if they even knew about you or would accept you, and here you were having some kind of breakdown over a non-existent gangbang; you winced at the term that reverberated in your head. Your eyes water and you fought back tears of distress.

A light tap came from your bedroom door and both you and your mom turned as it slowly creaked open to reveal Natasha, she stood clutching her hands in front of her; her fingers laced together so tightly that her fingers were turning a mottled mix of red and white. Bracing herself to stop her from reaching out to you she smiled hopefully. Your blinked rapidly to clear the moister from your eyes.

She was beautiful, you couldn’t deny that. Her skin, soft and clear and pale, was magnified by her curled shock of red hair and plump ruby lips; her long dark lashes emphasised her almond eyes which stared back at you in awe and wonderment. She had a way of looking at you which made you feel like you were the most precious being; like you had found the cure for every ailment, like you’d solved world poverty, like you had righted every unjust. It was overwhelming in the sense that it made you want to run and hide, unable to live up to whatever her expectation of you might be; but also made you want to relish in her warmth and let her overwhelming and obvious delight for you permeate your every pore.

“Your dad said we could take you for lunch.” She tilted her head hopefully.

Your eyes flicked momentarily to you mom and then back again.

“He did?” you asked uncertainly. You weren’t sure if you were ready for that; to make small talk. To eat in front of them. To be the sole focus of their attention. To not have the buffer of your parents there; but then again, maybe it would be a good thing that they weren’t going to be there. You couldn’t quite decide which scenario was less awkward.

Her hopeful smile twitched with uncertainty and suddenly you were overwhelmed with guilt that you might be the cause of disappointing her. You quickly bobbed your head; the worried crease between your brows faded as her face lit up in a delighted smile at your acceptance. She beamed happily and clapped her hands together in delight.

She stepped over the threshold of your bedroom and, with an easy familiarity, flipped open your jewellery box; the teeny wooden ballerina sprang to life and twirled aimlessly in her black tule tutu to the tinkling mechanical tune. Before you could blink she was threading a cheap pair of golden hoops through your lobes and slathering your eyelashes in mascara. Down on her knees she rummaged under your bed until she re-surfaced with a pair of battered and well-worn leather boots. You looked questioningly at you mom as you clutched the boots to your chest; she met your eye with an awkward acknowledgment at the super-spy’s easy navigation of your room.

Natasha pointed obliviously to the dresser behind you.

“You need socks?”

The diner, which Clint had mapped on his phone, wasn’t far; it was only a couple of blocks away but rarely somewhere you went as it tended to be in the opposite direction from anywhere you wanted to go. The table was cluttered with random plates of food, from three different types of burger, chicken wings, stuffed jalapenos, fries and sweet dessert pies.

You weren’t sure that you were hungry, your stomach unsettled from either the situation or from Clint’s erratic driving. At one point Natasha had glared at him; her pretty features scrunched in annoyance as she threatened to remove his spleen with her nail file; you sat silently in the back of their SUV with your arms wrapped across your front as you clutch the seatbelt for dear life.

You took a slurp of your malted shake as Clint sat next to you, his body angled in your direction as he took over from Natasha’s breathless spiel, going off on a breakneck tangent and explaining enthusiastically to you all of the possible ways in which he believed that aliens had built the Egyptian Pyramids. Your brain still trying to catch up on how he landed on this topic, you hadn’t been sure if he was teasing you; your eyes flittered across the table to Natasha who proved to be little help as she now sat quietly with her chin propped up in her hands, staring enchantedly at you and clearly not listening to a single word Clint was saying as she eventually cut him off, mid-sentence.

“So, if you don’t want to work for SI, what exactly _do_ you want to do?”

Clint stopped talking.

You gave a one shouldered shrug and nibbled the end of a fry.

“I guess I’ll try and get a job there,” you responded softly, unenthusiastically. “If not there, some other office, I guess.”

It felt weird talking about working at Stark Industries considering the situation. You briefly wondered if Tony Stark was now aware of your existence, and if he did, why he wasn’t here. You wanted to ask; but couldn’t quite muster up the courage to do so. The fact was that Natasha and Clint, his beta’s, were convinced that you were their omega. His omega. You weren’t quite so convinced; you had little experience in this arena. You had nothing comparable to judge this against. You really didn’t have any way of being able to determine the difference between a potential teenage crush and your second gender swooning at an alpha as a result of biology.

Clint stretch his arm along the back of the booth, his knuckles grazing against your shoulder; he looked at you passively, “I thought you hated the thought of working at SI”

You shifted awkwardly and played with the straw in you shake. You wondered how many private conversations you have been the topic of, “never said that I _hated_ it,” you mumbled. You were fairly certain you hadn’t, at least, not out loud. You silently cursed Peter and his inability to not run his mouth. It was a flaw of his which he had never quite curbed must to your irritation; particularly now that it may have landed you in hot water.

You wrinkled your nose instinctively, “it’s a job,” you replied weakly.

“You could do anything, if you don’t want to work for SI then don’t; although I do know a guy who can hook you up,” he shoved a handful of fries into his mouth and spoke around them. “You’ve got good grades; you could do anything you want.”

You furrowed your brow, “how do you know my grades are good? Did my dad tell you that?”

He glanced quickly at Natasha before shoving an entire breaded jalapeno into his mouth. He coughed, his cheeks flaming pink as a light sheen of sweat coated his top lip.

Natasha cocked her head, pursed her lips, and narrowed her eyes at you.

“Why have you resigned yourself to a future doing something you think you’re going to hate so much?”

Your jaw tightened in a frustration which you had thought you had long ago managed to school yourself out of. Surely Natasha wasn’t so out of touch with the common people that she was unaware of societal hierarchies. Yet, when you looked into her eyes she genuinely looked slightly baffled.

You had to look away, you focused your attentions on mixing your shake with your straw.

“People like me,” you paused, “we don’t have as many options.”

You were almost accusing in the way you said it; as though you held Natasha and Clint somewhat responsible for biology throwing you a shitty hand. You trailed off; it wasn’t their fault and you really didn’t want to immerse yourself in your own pity party. It felt like an odd time and an odd crowd to bring up one your biggest insecurities to. Your second gender which would dictate what you could and couldn’t do for the rest of your life; it set boundaries and laws for you which not everyone else would have to comply with; an invisible choke leash around you neck which could get yanked whenever an alpha decided to.

Clint’s knuckles rubbed soothingly against your shoulder and the air around you stilled; your tension eased somewhat, and your taut muscles loosened as though you’d been hit with a tranquiliser. You were melted and calm and the general anxiety about being in their presence and your future dissipated like the snap of fingers. Your cares and worries didn’t seem to exist; you munched contently on a fry until the air cleared again like the blockage of a pipe. You anxious feelings returned, but not quite as intensely as before. As you came around, Natasha was back to staring at you with a mesmerised, dreamy expression on her face and Clint was now dissecting his thoughts on the moon landings.

You took a long slurp of your milkshake and sat back.

Thank you so much for reading, feedback and comments are always appreciated :) 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains references to historical treatments of Omega's - nothing too graphic - but please proceed with caution.

Not much had changed for you since that day in the diner; four days the two betas had appeared with zero notice in your living room and made their grand announcement in a whirlwind of nervous excitement – on their part. They had dropped their news like an atomic bomb spewing out clouds of invisible radiation in a plume of dust and ash and debris that loomed over your head and stung at your eyes and made it hard for you to catch your breath. They carried on as though the air around them hadn’t been chemically altered and left you choking on its gnarled oxygen. Your father hadn’t said much on the matter as his behaviour flitted between skittish and pensive, and your mother was always careful not to mention it when he was around. At first you feared that he was mad, angry and ashamed but you were quickly reassured that it was none of those things. He was just a bit blindsided that his baby girl was growing up; the realisation of this rather obvious fact had been delivered in an abrupt body slam curtesy of Natasha and Clint. Your mom had of course initially teased him, but she quickly relented on account of his blanching face and jittery behaviour. You probably would have found it equally as amusing if your stomach hadn’t been burning with your own anxiety ever since.

Their existence and new presence in your life was hard to ignore, hard to push to the back of your mind and carry on as though nothing had changed. Natasha’s personality was all consuming and, even through text messages, you were left with the feeling that she trying to clamber inside your skin and fuse herself to you as though you were one single entity. You hovered a thin line of everything having changed and yet nothing having changed. You were yet to hear from the rest of their pack, as though they were nothing more than myth and legend or far too busy to concern themselves with a simple Omega who should know her place; your emotions were teetering back and forth between relief and disappointment. You could only imagine the intensity of a pack dynamic, the bottom of the food chain and at the mercy and beck and call of multiple Alpha’s and Beta’s. It sounded like an emotional and logistical nightmare. But niggling in the back of your mind was also the disappointment that you had been dismissed so quickly and easily; not good enough or pretty enough or special enough to be accepted into their elite pack of warriors. The thought of plain little you somehow being associated with them was laughable and the more you thought about your inadequacies, the darker and lonelier your mind became.

The previous evening you had Googled them following a brief story concerning them on the evening news; you weren’t wholly surprised to learn that the majority of the pack had been doing missionary work in Sri Lanka – a political good news story which had waxed lyrical about building international relations following the dismal leadership of previous US administration. All of them, with the exception of Clint and Natasha, had featured; all of them broad and imposing and slightly grumpy looking. The absence of the two Betas perhaps went some ways to explaining how they were still managing to light up you phone like a Christmas tree. Well, Natasha was, not so much Clint. Clint appeared to be a lot more laid back than his fellow Beta.

Your phone jingled just as you swung your locker shut; its cracked screen lighting up with a splintered image of text; an invite to an impromptu spa day from Natasha. You frowned.

You text back: _Today?_

Natasha: _Yes, my treat! I’ll pick you up at 11:30 at your parents._

You floundered over your response but eventually managed one: _I’ve got school, I don’t get out until 4_.

It seemed obvious, it was in the middle of the day on a weekday but apparently the thought didn’t appear to have occurred to Natasha. Your phone pinged again.

Natasha: _Of course – we’ll do it another time. But we’re not inviting the boys_.

Your face scrunched in confusion. You decided that Natasha was a bit strange and you slipped your phone back into your backpack and took off along the corridor in the direction of your Home Economics class. 15 minutes in and you were beginning to regret your choice and silently wished that you’d taken the offer and ditched; not that you were in the habit of doing so, but this class was just painful. Mrs Cunningham was a self-appointed expert on Omega / Alpha dynamics, not that she was one herself, and as per her normal rhetoric she spent the period droning on about classical care structures and methods. According to the New York state education system it was vital that all presented Omegas take mandatory Home Ec. as it was imperative that you and your kind could cook and clean and sew as per your natural instincts; they were careful in how they branded this as they couldn’t be seen to undo decades of legislation fronted by the Omega Rights movement as they championed for designation equality. Instead local government had decided that it was cruel to deny this type of learning to Omegas and, without it, all educational institutes would be setting you up to fail. It was all bullshit as far as you were concerned; if they truly believed their pitch then they would be making the class compulsory for all and wouldn’t limit which subjects you were allowed to elect for in the wider curriculum. What would become of the poor Alpha’s who didn’t know how to cook or clean, starvation or a lifetime of mouldy bathroom grout?

If the recipes which Mrs Cunningham had so far spent your term filling your jotter with was anything to go by, you apparently would hate your Alpha anyway. You would need to despise him or her to serve up half of the stuff she’d given you lessons on. She was, as usual, harping on about frugality and today’s lesson was to take a normal scone mixture and deep fry it to create homemade donuts. You balked and suspiciously eyed the claggy dough as it bobbed in its bubbling vat of oil until it turned a rusty shade of brown. Zero danger you would be attempting this monstrosity ever again. The finished product was as dubious as its cooking method and the offending crusty, greasy ball quickly found its way into the nearest trash can along with the rest of your classmate’s attempts. Hopefully nobody would light a match within the vicinity lest it blow and incinerate half your school.

You grabbed lunch with Peter and when the bell rang you both made your way to History together, grabbing your usual seats near the window towards the back of the class. Mr Slattery was a thin Beta with a scraggily greying beard; he had a habit of dressing a bit like a carnival fortune teller and smelling, on occasion, of weed. He spoke with his hands as he described each of his history lessons with an air of theatrics and was quite often so consumed in the depths of history that paying attention to what the student were doing during his classes was pretty low down his list of priorities. His syllabus had moved passed ancient history, the Roman Empire and the Shang Dynasty, the First and Second World Wars and the Iron Curtain; Mr Slattery was now deeply intrenched in the histories of second genders and it was here that his left wing socialist views became his most impassioned. You liked Mr Slattery, for as strange as he might be, he was deeply fervent about equal rights and most of the time you were happy to listen to his off tangent lectures and personal opinions as though he was an allied.

Today however, much to your horror, his digression ended with a 30-minute rant about multi-designation packs and their origins. His bleak PowerPoint depicted examples of ancient tribes, forced to share a limited number of Omega until they bred litter after litter of pups; a history told through Neolithic cave paintings. His historian mind described in detail the brutality imposed upon Omegas as he made his way through time and pulled out more modern examples. You knew some of your history, you weren’t totally ignorant to your past; however, you didn’t believe you’d ever heard it painted in such vivid realism before. Then again, perhaps you had but hearing it again was hitting you a little too close. It was dark and gory and rather unfortune timing for you.

“Kept in chains and sold to auctions,” Mr Slattery’s voice boomed over the silence of the classroom; the only other noise was the sound of blood rushing in your ears and your heart pounding in your chest.

“Over bred until their bodies eventually gave out, heart problems, medical complications, incontinence. Imprisoned. Beaten.”

“Their rights only protected under legislation since 1988.”

You felt dizzy and hot and cold all at once, your mouth was dry but your throat watered like you needed to vomit and your palms itched with sweat. Images of Omega’s in chains and treated like lesser members of society clicked through your brain like a slide show on a reel. Manacles and bindings and collars and straight-jackets and pears-of-anguish; a brutal and dark history imposed on your kind. The scent of distress oozed from your pores and clouded the air around you as a strangled cry of distress ripped from your throat, a flash of Peter’s concerned face, as you toppled from your chair and hit the floor; an unbearable pain exploded in your skull as your head collided with the radiator on the way down.

You vaguely remember the ambulance but mostly you remember the drugs which dulled the lancing pain in you left temple. By the time you’d been wheeled into an empty bay in the ER and given your details to a motherly male nurse your mom had arrived; clearly harassed but trying her hardest to exude an air of calm for your sake. She tried to ignore the brown and red smear of blood which had soaked into the neckline of your favourite navy sweater.

“Has the Doctor been yet?” she asked breathlessly, eyeballing the nurse as she tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and brushed the backs of her fingers against your pale chalky cheek.

“Not yet,” he responded, clicking his pen and jotting something on your chart. “Someone will be here are soon as they can but there’s probably going to be a bit of a wait.” He smiled sympathetically, “you might want to settle in for a while. There’s a café and store on third if you need to grab a coffee or some juice, maybe a magazine.”

Your mom smiled at him politely but wearily as she settled on the roller stool next to your gurney.

“Your dad is at work,” she told you quietly, “I said I’d call him if we needed him.”

You shook your head adamantly, “that’s okay. It’s just a bump.”

She nodded and pouted at you, “my poor baby. What happened?”

You gnawed your lip as you confessed; you narrowed your eyes as you caught her lip twitch. You squawked in indignation.

“Mom!” you whined, “don’t laugh at me!”

She covered her mouth with a hand, but she couldn’t hide the mirth which danced in her deep blue eyes.

“I’m sorry my love, but do you honestly think your father and I would let you become a sex slave in a billionaire’s harem?”

“Mom!” you moaned.

“Sorry sweetheart,” a snort of laughter escaped her and you shot her the best glare you could muster, “you’re more like your father than I gave you credit for; he’s always worrying about when his next worry will come.”

She leaned over and kissed your forehead gently and smoothed back your hair, careful of your wound. She gave you a warm smile, her eyes twinkled with love.

“As long as your Dad and I are around we would never ever ever let anything happen to you; you hear me?”

You gave her a dozy smile and a quick nod; her reassurances seeped into your bones.

“Mom –,” raised voices outside of your curtained bay interrupted your question.

“I’m a qualified Doctor, what do you mean I can’t see the patient?” said a crisp voice from the other side.

“Ma’am –.”

“Doctor,” the voice corrected.

“Doctor,” the voice emphasised impatiently, “unfortunately, you’re not a Doctor at this hospital. I cannot let you just waltz in and start examining patients.”

“I’m not waltzing anywhere, and I’m not asking to examine patients. I’m walking in and telling you that I’m here to examine one patient; I’m honestly not sure what the issue is.”

“The issue is that you’re not insured to work here, Dr Cho.”

“You’re quite mistaken,” the voice responded hotly. “I suggest that you go check with your administration. I shall wait here whilst you find out.”

An exasperated sigh followed a prolonged pause of silence, “wait here, please.”

A second passed before the curtain was drawn back and a petite, slender woman with a bright smile and coffee brown eyes entered, flinging the curtain back in place behind her.

Your mother blinked, “are you the Doctor,” she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

The woman nodded once, a shiny metal medical kit clutched by the handles in front of her. “I am your Private Physician, Dr Cho. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

You mom cleared her throat, her eyes flickered to you and then back again as she tilted her head, “we don’t have a Private Physician.” She responded slowly.

“You do,” the Doctor replied adamantly, “I’m her.”

“Are you from my husband’s work?” she asked.

Dr Cho scrunched her face in thought, “does your husband work for Tony Stark?”

“No.”

“Then, no. I’m not from your husband’s work.”

She placed the kit at the foot of your bed before tugging on a pair of disposable medical gloves; she didn’t seek permission as she approached guided your face into a better position for her to see and examine the abrasion. She eyed it critically.

“The real Tony Stark?” you enquired softly.

The doctor hummed thoughtfully, “if you’re thinking of the volatile, self-obsessed one who doesn’t play well with others, then yes. The real Tony Stark. How did you do this?”

You swallowed apprehensively, “I hit it off a radiator.”

She grabbed a little torch from her kit and shone it into your eyes, “that sounds careless, did you faint? Pass out? Look straight ahead.”

You nodded, your mind elsewhere, namely on Tony Stark, as you stared into the distance and tried not to squint as the obnoxious bulb. 

“What have you eaten today?” Her torch flickered over your vision.

“Muesli, and then a sandwich, fruit and chips.”

The doctor hummed in approval.

“When is your heat due?”

You flushed in embarrassment.

“I’m not sure,” you stuttered, “I’m not very regular.”

“When did you present?”

“Just over a year ago.”

“And how many heats since then?”

“Just one other. About a 6-weeks ago.”

“Okay, so its not likely to be that.”

Your mom interjected at this point, “she got a bit overwhelmed; she thought that’s what might what caused it?”

“Probably, I’ll take some blood and run some tests.” She tossed the torch back into her bag and pulled out another metal contraption, the same shape and size of an ordinary pen but when she twisted it a broad bolt of blue light beamed from its length.

“I’ll need you to stay still for this next bit,” she told you. 

You swallowed and held steady. 

“I’m just going to take a quick scan and make sure you’ve not done any damage.”

She moved the light over your face and you lay dumbfounded as it seemed to draw a 3D scanned image of your skull and brain. Thread thin ribbons of light danced and splintered in the air until the whole image was revealed; it hovered over the end of your bed in a floating orb of red and green light particles which pulsated in time to your own heartbeat as though the image was alive.

She smirked at the expression on your face, “pretty cool, huh?”

You agreed with open awe.

“The good news is your cut is only superficial, and I’ll have it fixed in a jiffy.”

With a flick of her wrist the hovering scan dispersed; a shower of light atoms rained outwards and vanished as they hit off any solid objects in their path.

You peaked over curiously as she rummaged in her kit, producing yet another oblong gadget from her bag of tricks. You glanced at your mom, she watched keenly, clearly none to fazed about letting the Doctor test her multitude of gadgets upon you. If you hadn’t been as curious as you were you might have been a little put out by her non-reaction.

You lay still as she worked, staring up at the yellowing ceiling tiles and sombre strip lights. Dr Cho smiled smugly as you mother looked on in bewilderment.

“It’s printing tissue.”

“How?” she asked, although your mother was no scientist and Dr Cho might has well of explained the process in Wakandan for all the sense it made to her.

“The nano-molecular functionality is happening so quickly that the cells don’t realise that they’re actually bonding with simulacrum. It will leave no scar; just perfect tissue.”

She drew her hand away, “we’re done.”

You blinked in confusion, and tentatively reached up. Around your hairline was still matted and sticky with blood, you could feel it thick and crisp where it had dried in to your hair but when you ran your fingers gently over the area where the gash has once been it was smooth and clear.

“Does it hurt?” your mom asked.

You shook your head, “no. its,” you paused, “its like it never happened.”

Dr Cho was packing her kit. “Get some rest,” she said, “regardless of the healed laceration you’ve taken quite a tumble. Get home and take it easy for the next day or so. If there’s any problems call my number immediately.”

She passed your mom a sleek looking business card which she toyed with in her fingers as she looked back at the Doctor.

“And Tony Stark send you?”

“No, Natasha Romanoff did.”

“How did she know we were here?”

Dr Cho smiled in amusement, “I don’t believe that there’s much Ms Romanoff doesn’t know about your daughter, Ma’am. As for how she knows, I honestly don’t know and don’t want to know. That’s Ms Romanoff’s business. I’m just on the payroll.”

She nodded at you both, “it was a pleasure to meet you both. Call if you need me; day or night.”

With that, she slipped back through the curtain again and in time to meet the returning nurse; their voices barely muted by the synthetic fabric sheeting.

“Doctor,” the nurse huffed, “I’ve checked with the administration, you’re definitely not insured by the hospital. Unless you’re here as a visitor or a patient I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“My mistake,” Dr Cho responded cheerfully. “Have a good day.”

Exhausted and sticky and grimy you eventually made it home just after your normal dinner time. The desire to do nothing but collapse on the sofa was so achingly close that your desperate need to find your sanctuary was setting your teeth on edge. The yellow cab you’d taken from the hospital was gnarled and old; the floor trampled with crumbs and grit from the soles of other people’s shoes and it smelt like a smorgasbord of other people’s scents; Alpha, Beta and Omega amalgam which clogged your nose and caked your throat in the most unwelcome of ways.

You barely found your energy to climb the porch steps; the air was fresh and rid you of the putrid stench of hospital and cab; you crossed the threshold of home and let out a whimper as you turned to face your mother. The familiar scents of baking, cookies and cakes and sweet jams still hung in the air like a warm, soft, familiar blanket; the comforting scents of your parents which hugged you internally and made you feel safe and coddled. But newer, spicier scents were overwhelming those, and the air was rich with tabaco flower, vanilla, cocoa, dried fruit, and sweet wood sap mixed with white blossom and sandalwood. Despite the longing which you felt to bury your nose deep into those woodsy notes you couldn’t help but tint the air with your own ashy distress. You wanted to weep as the need to submerge yourself in the safety of you home slipped from your fingers like dry sand.

Muscular arms, unfamiliar, muscular arms encircled you and pulled your nose to his chest in a tight embrace which had you letting forth another whimper before the calming notes had a chance to reach your brain. A heavy hand pawed at your hair.

“Shush, little ‘Mega. You’re safe now, just breathe.”

You inhaled a lung full of air; the aroma of sweet and spice was stronger but not clawingly so. Your shoulders drooped and your tightly wound muscles relaxed to the point that if those strong arms hadn’t been circling you, you likely would have slid to the floor in a puddle of laxed gooey flesh.

“Is that Omega drunk?” a teasing voice spoke from beside you.

You opened your eye a sliver and peered out; you should have been unnerved by the presence of Tony Stark in your home, but your inhibitions had waned, and your head felt light and woozy. He looked like he’d just stepped out of the television screen so a bit of you was wondering if he was actually real or if your loopy mind was playing a trick.

Choppy styled hair and immaculate facial fuzz that you wanted to rub with your finger to test if it was soft or prickly, tortoise shell sunglasses with orange gradient lenses.

“Remember when we were in the car and we spoke about not overwhelming her, Steve?” he shoved his hands in his pockets, rocked on his heels and smiled at you indulgingly, “this is kinda what I was meaning.”

“Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?” you slurred.

“It’s to break up my good looks; I’m overwhelmingly handsome without them and it wouldn’t be fair to you. You’re not ready for that yet.” He responded deadpan.

In the background your mother coughed to smother her laughter.

You scrunched your face, “oh,” was your articulate response.

Your mother’s comforting hand rubbed at your back, her voice was cheerful and calm.

“Whilst its very nice to meet you, Mr Rogers and Mr Stark. I do have to insist that you stop drugging my daughter now; I think she’s quite calm again.”

Their scents cleared somewhat and the gloopy feeling in your head faded to a consistent buzz as your mom guided you up the stairs. Although your limbs moved slowly like you were wading through syrup.

“We need to freshen up a bit after the hospital, please make yourselves comfortable,” she called down from the landing.

Your calming haze hadn’t lifted completely and you floated through a steaming shower as though neither Tony Stark nor Steve Rogers were sitting patiently in the lounge; like you were witnessing a dream or a unrelated scene from a movie of which you were completely disconnected from. In fact, it was fair to say that you may have even forgotten that they were down there, your head was so muddled. You tugged your brush through your tangled mess of hair and pulled it up onto the top of your head in a sopping wet bun, yanked on a pair of black leggings and an oversized grey hoody which swamped your frame and trundled back downstairs in a foraging mission now that your stomach was nosily complaining about the lack of food.

You screeched to a halt inside the door of the lounge and tilted your head questioningly at two occupants who were definitely not your parents. Handsome and imposing Alpha’s who seemed to take up the length and breadth of the room.

“Oh yeah,” you exclaimed before delicately asking, “are you lost?”

Steve rose from the sofa and held out his hand to you. His voice rumbled in his chest. He sounded different from the way he spoke on the TV, “why don’t you come and sit down.”

You looked at his hand for a moment, then leaped forward, grabbed it in both of yours and studied in awed fascination.

“You have big hands,” you exclaimed.

Across the room Tony snorted, “you should see the size of his…gloves,” he finished at Steve shot him a reprimanding glare.

Nevertheless, his large hands guided you over to the sofa where you curled in the corner, watching dopily as he covered you with one of your mom’s throw blankets and tucked you in.

“I hit my head,” you told him.

“I heard,” he replied softly, tenderly. His blue eyes twinkled, “I was glad you hear you were okay, though.”

You shot him a puzzled look, “you were?”

“Yep. We were very happy that Dr Cho was able to make you better.”

You closed your eyes and snuggled back into the cushions, “She’s not a Doctor,” you mumbled sleepily. “She’s a wizard.”

Steve chuckled, “a wizard?”

His response was a soft snore.

Thanks to everyone who's commented so far - I really appreciate you taking the time :o) I hope you all enjoyed the update.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been procrastinating over this chapter was weeks; I'm still not happy with it but I feel like I just need to post it and move on >.<

You woke late the next morning with the headache from hell; splitting down the side of you face and into your ear, somehow your right eye was hurting as well. Your mom had thoughtfully left painkillers on your bedside cabinet, along with a bottle of water; you gulped them down and then buried back under the blankets again until they took effect.

You couldn’t remember getting to bed last night but figured you must have been pretty out of it considering you were still in the same comfortable leggings and sweatshirt; your neatly folded pyjamas had been placed carefully on your desk chair. Muffled memories of Tony Stark and Steve Rogers flittered in your mind but you couldn’t quite gasp them with any clarity. They were almost dreamlike, yet you knew they weren’t. Their scents were still present on you and you shoved your nose into cuff of your top where it was particularly concentrated and inhaled their mixed sweet and spicy aromas; you submerged yourself in them and snuggled up until your headache faded and you grudging dragged yourself from the swaddling of blankets. 

Your mom wrapped her arms around you when you got to the kitchen and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“How are you feeling today, my love?”

“Sore head,” you mumbled somewhat unintelligibly as you bit into a grape.

She tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, “you want some breakfast, hm? There’s some bircher in the fridge?”

You scrunched your nose and slipped into the nearest chair.

“Coco-pops?” you questioned hopefully. Your face broke into a bright grin when she rolled her eyes and plucked the obnoxiously yellow box from the cupboard and fetched you a juice and a mug of decaf Twinning’s. The trill of the doorbell shattered your peace, followed by the creaking of hinges, and moments later you found yourself cradled to Natasha’s bosom. It was a little awkward but not all together unwelcome; her vetiver scent was soothing and she was softer than she looked although her lean arms were tight bindings which held you protectively close.

“I was so worried about you,” she cooed softly.

“I’m okay,” you squeaked back, keen to ease her obvious worry. If it worked or not you were none the wiser; her strong grip on you never faltered, even when the doorbell chimed obnoxiously for the second time in as many minutes. This time, however, the caller chose to wait patiently until your mom answered the door.

“Let her breathe, Nat.”

You recognised his assertive voice from all of those dumb service announcement videos the school played on loop at assembles. Not that you were able to see him at this precise moment in time; not with Natasha currently smooshing your face affectionately to her chest. You heard a growl reverberate from within her and you stiffened at Natasha’s obvious disgruntlement at being ordered off of you. It was a dissatisfied challenge to him, warning him not to interfere with her Omega; it was not an unusual trait but definitely one which was commonly seen as being ill-mannered.

Steve’s scent soured as notes of burned cardamom seeped into the air although any verbal chastisement, which might have followed, never happened as your mother took matters into her own hands and cut in with a scolding defusing tut. One which you yourself weren’t completely unfamiliar with.

“No growling in my kitchen, please. Or you can take that nonsense elsewhere.”

Natasha’s arms loosened.

“Sorry, Mrs Wilson,” she offered up contritely, her plump lips twisted into a puckered pout as she slowly and reluctantly released you from her hold; her arms slackened around you and you tentatively raised a spoonful of milky cereal to your mouth and chewed as you eyed the packmates warily, wondering how Steve, in his Alpha designation, would handle what happened.

There was an uncomfortable silent pause.

“Sorry, Steve,” she eventually muttered sullenly.

He frowned at her but gave her a silent nod of acknowledgement.

You swallowed thickly as a flurry of nerves fluttered through your belly at the mere notion of ever being the one to garner that look from him. His brow furrowed, leaving deep frown lines, eyes icy cool and his taught. This morning, in your scent sober state, you finally had the opportunity to just look at him. He was an imposing figure and seeing him on television and in pictures really didn’t do him justice; tall and broad shouldered, his blond hair was combed back neatly from his face and his beard smartly trimmed. His spicy and woodsy aroma was all consuming to the point that it made your mind a little woozy. Everything about him screamed Alpha. 

As if feeling eyes upon him he glanced down at you rapidly and caught you staring; almost immediately his tight jaw loosened, his features softened fondly, and his azure blue eyes sparkled like the ocean catching the sun.

Obviously keen to shuffle her way back into your mothers good books, and possibly out of Steve’s reach, Natasha reluctantly crossed the kitchen, grabbing a tea towel on route, and started to help you mom with the breakfast dishes. Meanwhile Steve had claimed the chair next to you at the dining table and plucked the spoon from your hand. He scooped up a helping of cereal and guided it to your mouth; baffled and taken aback, not entirely sure how to react and not wishing to be rude, you settled on biting dutifully and allowed the sturdy Avenger to feed you. You side-eyed him, wondering if he was serious but the waves of contentment which rolled off of him were palpable.

“I’m sorry about Natasha just barging in,” his voice was deep and firm and laced with tones of subtle scolding which was clearly intended for Natasha; it stirred something unfamiliar within you and you shifted in your chair. He obviously hadn’t quite forgiven her for the growl.

Your eyes flickered to where Natasha stood drying a chopping knife; her pretty face was twisted into a pouty scowl at the backhanded chastisement.

“I was concerned. Someone wouldn’t let me come over last night to check if our Omega was okay.” She cut in, emphasising the someone.

“I was here. Tony was here. We told you she was okay.”

You wrinkled your nose as you glanced warily between the two, wondering if they’d somehow forgotten they were in your mom’s kitchen.

“I wanted to see her for myself.” She shot back, her slim fingers curled tightly around the wooden handle.

“She didn’t need an audience.”

Your mom wordlessly plucked the utensil from Natasha’s grasp and slide it carefully into the drawer.

“I’m her Beta, she knew me first.”

“I’m her Alpha.”

“Yeah, well you’re acting like her mother.” She bickered back.

Steve clenched his jaw and opened his mouth to respond when your mom gasped in faux outrage.

“Hey! I resent that. Not even I spoon feed my seventeen-year-old daughter.”

Steve’s cheeks reddened as he slowly and sheepishly placed the spoon back into the, now empty, bowl.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he lowered his head.

Your mom smirked and carried on with the washing up, still aided by Natasha.

“How are you feeling now, sweetheart?” Steve asked gently, his brow was furrowed in concern as he tenderly pushed the stray strands of your dark hair away from your face and clear of your, now non-existent, wound.

“I’m okay,” you told him shyly as you took a sip of your tea. “I had a headache before, but its gone now.”

He hummed sympathetically before he turned his attention back to Natasha and your mom as they chatted at the sink.

Never in your wildest imagination would you have ever dreamt that you would ever be this close to Steve Rogers, thee Captain America. How handsome he was in real life was beyond ridiculous and the notion that he was even within your vicinity made your heart thud in your chest and you mentally prayed to Thor that you would be able to drink your tea like a normal omega with slavering it down your chin like a complete degenerate. Someone as perfect as Steve Rogers would never slaver tea; Steve Rogers was perfect.

You swore that his eyes were the bluest eyes which you’d ever seen, azure blue with delicate flecks of silver and cobalt and framed with the longest lashes you’d ever seen on a boy. A man, you silently corrected yourself. Steve Rogers was a man. You swallowed nervously, a man who’s perfect expectations you would likely never live up to. You wondered when they would realise that they’d made a mistake; you couldn’t possibly be the missing puzzle piece to their pack. The thought of this being discovered as a heinous error sent a fluttering ache shooting through your chest; the disappointment looming in your near future felt a little unfathomable given you’d only met them a handful of times. Yet you couldn’t seem to stop the flickering of nauseating panic in your gut.

Steve flinched and his eyes darted in your direction. He eyed you carefully with those cerulean eyes as though he could somehow sense a twinge of distress within you; he carefully tugged your chair across the tiled floor until you were flush against him and wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you tightly into his side and pressed his lips to your temple. You melted against his broad frame; as though his very being sheltered you from your own thoughts and failings as you up sanctuary in his scent.

* * *

You would have loved to have said that Steve’s quiet affection that morning had instantly rid you of the little voice inside of your head which seemingly enjoyed rhyming off all of your failings whenever it had the chance. But unfortunately that wasn’t exactly how things went. If anything your little voice was getting louder and more frequent and much more critical.

And so the days continued in an abnormal daze; suddenly your neat and tidy family of three became an extended household for people who had once been well out with your reach, and potentially still were. It was no longer strange or unusual to return home to find one of the pack ambling around your house; more unusual was the day when you returned home to find Steve on his back under the kitchen sink trying to fix a blocked U bend for your mom whilst she sat at the dinner table drinking a coffee and leafing lazily through a Christmas catalogue. The most unusual was the day when Clint commandeered your dad’s slippers and jumbo crossword puzzle and took up post in one of the living room armchairs as though he lived there. Your dad hadn’t said anything but he had moped around like a child being forced to suddenly share his toys whilst your mom tried not to laugh.

You did your best to act as though all of this was normal; but you felt like you were walking on eggshells. A pack had claimed you as theirs, or had they? You weren’t sure anymore. They might have done, but they hadn’t explicitly told you that; yet they were spending time with you. You weren’t sure what it meant and you didn’t like to ask. It felt awkward, and maybe not your place. Maybe too presumptuous. What if you asked and they laughed? Steve would chuckle and ruffle your hair, call you precious or adorable. Clint would say nothing, just keep on eating and ignore the question. Natasha would smirk and roll her eyes as though you couldn’t see her. And Tony, he would bellow out a brief and humorless laugh and make some cutting remark about your suitability as their Omega.

So you kept your mouth shut. You didn’t want to be the recipient of any of these reactions; but equally, you didn’t want to encourage anything. You were between a rock and hard place. Your mind wandered back to all those lessons from Mrs Cunningham and Mr Flattery; if their curriculum was accurate, and you had in fact been claimed, then by all rights you should be shacked up and hind up in their sex pit as they all took turns. Not still snuggled away safe and warm in your childhood home. So maybe you hadn’t been claimed; because your current situation wasn’t what your textbooks said, and you knew that for certain because you’d double checked it yesterday. Yet here you were, unbitten and whole. Nothing had changed except for their insertion into your life and the frequent text messages from Natasha which lit up your phone from morning till night.

But you weren’t going to ask; you weren’t ready for the other boot to drop. Not yet.

Thanks for reading; and thanks to everyone who has reviewed and followed and liked!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who's left kudos and taken the time to leave comments - your comments have been so kind and encouraging; I love hearing what your thoughts are on where this story is going.

You were practically reverberating with nerves as the elevator rose, at speed, to the residential levels of Avenger Tower. You hadn’t been there since that day in October with Peter and school and things were so different now. Natasha stood beside you, failing miserably at containing her excitement that you were here as she clutched your hand; her fingers threaded tightly through yours. It was 7 PM on 25th November; tomorrow was Thanksgiving and you and your parents had been invited, at Tony’s insistence, that you join the pack to celebrate. You were a bundle of nerves and hovering somewhere on the precipice of either keeping your shit together or projectile vomiting in a stunning enactment of the exorcist.

All too soon your vertical coffin slowed to a smooth halt and the doors slid open with a gentle chime. You swallowed thickly as Natasha tugged you forward and into the heart of the apartment. The rich intoxicating scent of the pack surrounded you and enveloped you like a warm syrupy hug, but despite its comfort it never before had been so apparent just how out of your depth you were; this was a far cry from your humble Queens home. Matt black floor tiles stretched all the way from where you stood and continued outside to the glass sided walkway which was currently illuminated with uniformed uplighters. Massive floor to ceiling windows gave way to the most spectacular night-time view of the city. To your left was an open plan kitchen and dining area and to your right a sunken lounge. Everywhere you looked was sleek and shiny and expensive looking and you’d never felt so out of place. 

You chewed your lip nervously as you tried to take it all in. 

“You have a lovely home,” came you mom’s voice politely from behind you.

You doubted she was telling the truth; this wasn’t her style at all, it wasn’t cosy and homely and full of family memories. It was modern and fashionable, a show home put together by an overpriced interior designer and ready to be ripped out and redone when they got bored of it. You didn’t belong here.

Natasha squeezed your hand gently and when you looked she was beaming at you as though she couldn’t quite believe you were there; you forced a smile back.

“Where is everyone else?” you enquired softly, warily.

Natasha hummed in response, “well, Tony is in his lab doing stuff with things, Steve and Bucky are grabbing a few more bits and pieces from the market and hell knows where Clint is; but don’t worry, he’ll show up when the food arrives.”

You nodded slowly.

“Come,” she said, “I’ll show you your rooms. We put you all in a guest apartment, I hope that’s okay?”

“Sounds lovely,” your dad responded as you all trailed after her, “I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble?”

Natasha turned her head and beamed at him, her eyes flickered to you, “not at all, we’re so happy you’re here. It’s usually just us. It’s going to be so special this year.”

The guest apartment was joined via a short hallway and decorated just as sleekly with a variety of creams and whites and golds; the view from the bedrooms and sitting area was just as spectacular. You dumped your bag in the smallest of the two bedrooms, it smelt like fresh paint, and ran your hand over the invitingly plush looking bedspread; it was soft and silky beneath your fingers. Crisp and new and temping you to crawl in and curl up under its comforting weight. Maybe if you slid in and lay flat you could hide here and nobody would find you; you considered the possibility.

You slipped off your hat, scarf and coat and draped them over the armchair as you toed off your boots. You loosely unpacked; tucked your pyjamas under the pillow and shoved your toiletries in the en-suite until you’d delayed yourself as much as you reasonably could without one of your parents physically dragging you from your room. They were no longer in the guest apartment; you called out to them and stuck your head through their bedroom doorway when you didn’t get a response. You retraced your steps back along the short hallway; your woollen tights slippery against the tiled floor as you stopped just shy of where a small group had congregated, talking and smiling with your parents as new introductions and welcomes were being made.

Bucky Barnes shook hands with your father, you barely recognised him as he was so rarely photographed. So different he seemed from being in front of the media on the rare occasion he surfaced from obscurity. His formidable scowl and ridged posture had been replaced with a pearly white, joyful grin which crinkled the edges of his eyes as they twinkling sapphire and sparkled with silver. Steve spotted you first, his bright smile grew wider as he crossed over to collect you with his impossibly long strides. He greeted with a waft of spice, a bone crushing half hug and a kiss to your temple and steered you over; his heavy arm curling around you protectively.

Bucky beamed at you as you were introduced for the first time; he slid his flat cap from his head and grasped your small hand in the large, rough warmth of his own. The aroma of whisky and orange and star anise engulfed you and your breath caught in your throat. You squirmed as he focused his sole attention on you; studying you until you internally shrank beneath his gaze. You could feel his eyes searching out all of your flaws. The little bump on your nose, was your face too round and your skin too pale? Were your thighs too thick and your boobs too small? Was you outfit ugly, should you have worn something more mature? Something which would have made you seem older, sexier? Should you have tried to do something better with your hair and your make-up; contoured and baked with stuck on eyelashes like some of the girls in your class? Is that what they wanted? Is that what they needed? You didn’t know.

Your face turned scarlet as Bucky dipped and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of your hand; he lip twitched in surprise at the burning hue of your cheeks as though disbelieving of your bashfulness. Steve chuckled and tugged you closer into his side as he tried to deflect.

“Okay, Buck. Geez, 70 years and you’re still using the same old tricks, huh?”

Bucky straightened, your hand dropping from his and he ducked his head.

“You know what they say, if it ain’t broke. Besides, worked on you, didn’t it?” His words were confident even if his body language said otherwise.

Steve hummed noncommittally.

Regardless, you were grateful that the attention was off of you.

Your mom and dad found themselves relaxing in the lounge with Natasha; she was curled up on the sofa looking the most casual you’d ever seen her as she sipped delicately from a glass of red wine. The faux fireplace shimmered nearby with the images of dancing flames which lit up her delicate features in the dim light of the room and gave her an ethereal glow; you didn’t think you’d ever seen her look so beautiful. Perhaps if you’d been braver you would have call out to her and told her so; you wanted to. You wanted her to know. She should know; but you couldn’t. The words would catch on your tongue and you’d mumble them; you’d embarrass yourself and you’d make things awkward. So you kept your mouth shut and swallowed your thoughts; turning your attention back to the kitchen before she caught you staring like a creepy little stalker child.

Their voices still carried though, you could hear their quiet laughter and your mom’s conspiratorial stage whisper and you prayed she wasn’t regaling Natasha with mortifying tails about you. Trying to act like a normal person in front of everyone was hard enough without them knowing how much of a human disaster you were.

Steve had parked you atop one of the high bar stools which ran along one side of the kitchen island; he and Bucky had taken up residence on the other side and were pulling together the most elaborate cheese and charcuterie boards you’d even seen. Bowls were piled high with crackers and oatcakes and crispy flatbreads, parmesan crisps and sweet organic honey, an obscene selection of international cheeses which you’d watched Bucky painstakingly label with little handwritten flags on cocktail sticks; his neat penmanship elegant and cursive. Ramakins of dried fruits, olives, cornichons and caperberries separated the enormous platter of finely slices Iberian and Italian meats which Bucky was currently slicing by hand.

“Are you sure I can’t help with anything?” you asked shyly for the third time. You were always glad that their responses had been no.

“Yes! You can sit there and look adorable; I must say that you’re making a fine job of it so far.” You jumped as Tony’s voice boomed from behind you as he made his entrance.

Steve gave an exasperated smile and raised an eyebrow at his fell Alpha.

Tony sidled up to you, bent at the waist and pressed a chaste kiss to the apple of your cheek; his hands and lower arms, held away from you, were streaked with some kind of blackish oil and his scent was mixed with tinges of fuel, metallic undertones and something chemically.

He pressed his lips to the shell of your ear and whispered conspiratorially, “I’m glad you’re here. The others are so boring.”

Bucky rose from where he was delicately laying strips of prosciutto and narrowed his eyes, “you know we can hear you?”

At which point Tony turned sharply and sprinted up the staircase to what looked like an upper mezzanine, “gonna grab a shower,” he called. 

When you turned back, Bucky gave you a little smile. “You get use to it,” he told you without explanation, the tone of his voice suggested that not even believed that.

You inhaled a shaky lungful of air, you very much doubted that were true. The thought of ever getting use to this was something very far from achievable and the notion of one day being a part of this pack, this family, was inconceivable. The idea that any of these people could want you in all of the ways that Alphas and Betas were meant to want an Omega was utterly baffling.

When you looked up Bucky was looking at you with concern. You hated seeing the little frown line which cut deep into his flesh between his dark brows; his worry clear to you. You tried your hardest to swallow you dark thoughts and forced yourself to smile, the corners of your mouth twitching upwards in obligation to ease his unease which had been created by you, again. 

You needed to stop doing this. They didn’t need this; they didn’t need you to add to their list of things to worry about. They had enough on their plate without having to drop everything and rush to the aid of some needy child Omega. They’d grow bored of that, frustrated and annoyed. You’d be taken out of your box to be bred and to see the Alpha’s successfully through their ruts and then be put back again like an unwanted toy. It didn’t matter how much your mom said she wouldn’t allow that, it didn’t matter if they played nice for now; once a bond was created there would be no backing out, no second thoughts, no do-overs. There would be no hope for asylum because the bond would mark you as theirs for the rest of your days; split open and ripped and stretched just like those ancient pack tribes had once done.

Warm hands brushed your cheeks and held your face gently but steadily between rough fingers; the comforting smell of expensive soap mixed with the aromatic spices which seeped from every one of Tony’s pores as you looked tentatively into his golden brown eyes.

“There she is,” he whispered warmly. He smiled despite the corners of his eyes twitching with concealed concern. 

Your anxious thoughts faded and the unintended tint of burnt liquorice which peppered the air slowly faded.

“Sorry,” you whispered as your cheeks coloured; and you genuinely meant it.

His eyes danced over your features; he took his time to speak as though he was stalling for time in order to choose his words carefully.

“Hey.” He murmured, keeping his voice low, “we’re gonna have a great Thanksgiving. We’re gonna eat a lot of food; and we’re gonna forget about stupid work and stupid school and we’re gonna relax and hang out and forget about worrying about things which probably don’t need to be worried about. Okay?”

You nodded slowly, wondering if any of his gadgets had the ability to lobotomise you because realistically that would be the only reason you’d stop worrying any time soon.

Regardless, you let him pull you from the bar stool and guided you over to the lounge area. You curled into the sofa, your father on one side and Tony on the other as Steve and Bucky ferried platters of food over to the low coffee table.

“Okay, Bude?” you dad asked quietly.

You responded with a reassuring nod.

“Bude?” Tony asked.

You shot your dad a pleading look.

“Yes,” your mom called out abruptly from where she and Natasha were sitting; Natasha in the midst of refilling their wine glasses.

“Mom!” you squealed out, abandoning the subtle tactics you’d attempted on your father to try and avoid what would happen next.

“It’s short for buddha,” she explained with a merry giggle. “She was a chubby little thing with barely a lick of hair when she was a baby; she use to sit with her cute little belly sticking out.” She let out a laugh as you groaned in mortification. “She looked like one of those buddha statues; she was adorable.”

“It’s short for buddha,” she explained with a merry giggle. “She was a chubby little thing with barely a lick of hair when she was a baby; she use to sit with her cute little belly sticking out.” She let out a laugh as you groaned in mortification. “She looked like one of those buddha statues; she was adorable.”

You covered your face in horror. The subtle coughs intended to hide the amusement of everyone else around you were not as subtle as they thought they were; you were plagued with the overwhelming desire to toss yourself off the balcony and let gravity do its work just to get you out of this horrifying debacle of a conversation.

Arms wrapped around you in a warm and comforting hold; their soothing only slightly offset by the jerky laughter which rumbled through Tony’s chest as he tried his best to succour you.

His voice was speckled with mirth.

“Oh, sweetheart. You just can’t catch a break today can you?”

You didn’t bother to answer, choosing instead to slink down further into the safety of his arms until your face had stopped flaming.

Thank you so much for reading, comments are welcome :)


	7. Chapter 7

You had been quite correct in your assumptions about how comfortable your guest bed would be. In the quietness of your guestroom, high above the shimmering lights and heavy traffic of the city, you had crawled into bed and slid beneath the blankets; curled soundly surrounded in the scents of fresh cotton linens. You could have been in the middle of the countryside; the usual rumble of the city never once managed to reach the floors of the packs home. 

Spending the evening with the pack had wound up being far more bearable than you had anticipated; albeit your body had gradually ached with a tight stress which consumed every muscle and made your head ache until Tony had quietly, and without fanfare, resorted to a one handed massage to the back of your neck as though he could sense your physical discomfort. His warm fingers, skin roughened at the tips, sank into your flesh and eased your tension until the pain dissipated; a warmth which you couldn’t describe had seeped through your vains like warm honey.

In spite of your unrelenting anxiety, you had somehow managed to survive as Natasha had plied your mom with more wine in exchange for your seemingly endless childhood tales as they sat on the periphery of the group, whispering, gossiping and conspiring. You even managed to relax at times as you nestled between your dad and Tony, both of their scents comforting you in two very different ways which you didn’t understand just yet; the attention politely and strategically kept off of you by the rest of the pack in lieu of your ongoing jitters. Each one of them, with the obvious exception of Natasha, carefully steering the conversation in a different direction whenever one of them slipped up in their inquisitive eagerness to get to know you.

Go slow, was Steve clear directive; but it wasn’t easy for them. To find their omega was a dream that none of them had dared to think about; each of them bore their own emotional scars and now that you had stumbled into their lives you were a part of them. It would you a little longer to figure that out, but they were willing to wait and let you come to them when you felt the bond as they did. But in the meantime, they would take this as slowly as you were comfortable with; some of them had waited 100 years to find you, a few more months or a year was negligible.

A gentle drum of light fingers danced on other side of your bedroom door before the handle turned without a sound and the door opened just enough for Natasha to slide silently into the room. You were still vailed in darkness from the drawn curtains, but you could immediately tell who it was; if not from the petite silhouette and ample curve of her chest, if not for the graceful way she moved with each elegant step she took and the sensual roll of her hips, if not for her warm familiar scent; you could feel her as though your body knew that she was near even before the pitter patter of finger tips pattered at your door. 

She spotted you awake and, even in the dim light, you caught it as she beamed her 100w smile at you and slinked onto the bottom of your bed at the same as you sat up and scooted upwards so you were leaning comfortably against the padded velvet headboard. Even at this time in the morning she was put together perfectly; her red hair effortlessly and messily tousled, she looked cosy in a pair of soft black cashmere wide-legged joggers and matching cropped sweater.

“I didn’t know if you’d be awake yet,” her nose then wrinkled in annoyance. “Steve said not to come in here; so, if he asks, you can say that you text me with an invite. Did you sleep okay?” she whispered eagerly.

You nodded at the same as your heart jittered in your chest; the notion of fibbing to Steve, no matter how white the lie apparently did not sit easy with you, and the realisation of that was surprisingly unexpected. You missed any amusement which you might have otherwise noticed at Natasha subtle concern at the potential of being caught disobeying a request. It seemed to contradict everything you knew about her so far. She didn’t seem the type to get rattled over a silly instruction like that; yet here she was, conspiring with you in the darkness of your bedroom to potentially deceive her Alpha. Your Alpha – maybe.

Natasha stared back at you, her cool blue eyes danced over your face.

“It’s so comfy,” you eventually stuttered softly to break the silence; stuck for anything else to say you ran your hand over the plush velvet blanket which covered your bed.

She beamed, her smile growing even wider.

“Then you’ll love the pack room,” she responded gleefully, her excited whisper grew louder. “It’s like sleeping on a giant marshmallow. You’ll never want to leave it, sometimes we don’t.”

Your eyes widened like saucers and you nearly choked on your own saliva. Her words so assured as if it had already been decided that you belonged with them. If she’d said anything out of turn, she certainly didn’t acknowledge it as she rabbited on and you slid ever closer to your existential crisis where you’d been teetering on the edge of for the last few weeks. Had something happened which you’d missed? Which you hadn’t been informed of or updated of? Did they assume you knew, or did they not think it relevant to update you, keep you in the loop because, after all, you were only an omega? 

Had you been handed over to them, a bartered agreement haggled between your father and the alphas in a conference room packed with Stark lawyers, balding white men in charcoal suits. You didn’t want to imagine it; the rutting train of over-eager Alpha’s oozing their toxic masculinity, among other things, as you were bent over, hind up, choking on a too tight collar. Never wanting to leave, and never being allowed to leave, were two very different things. In the cold light of day you were inching ever closure to that scenario and nobody seemed to understand your plight and utter reluctance to become their sex puppet until you were bred to a ruin. 

Tentative fingers brushed your cheek and snapped you back to reality; Natasha’s flawless face, her features ghosted with mirth as though she could read your absurd thoughts and found amusement in them. You shook the unwanted image from your head. You wanted to be happy. That sort of stuff didn’t happen anymore, you swallowed down the thoughts and tried to focus on the words which tumbled from Natasha’s perfectly full lips.

“Come through to the lounge; Clint’s making pancakes for breakfast and the parade is going to start soon. We’ll put it on the television, but we’ll get a birds eye view of it from the Mark VII walkway if we can stand the cold.”

“The what?” you asked curiously as you pushed the crisp quilt down your legs.

“Don’t worry about that.” She slid off the bed and riffled through your bag until she pulled out a hoodie; navy blue which said ‘No…’ in large white font and handed it to you.

You tugged it over your head, Natasha feeling the need to help as she pulled it down your torso as though helping to dress an unable child; it was oversized and snuggly and managed to hide most of the wombat print sleep shorts. So early in the morning and you were already wincing at the obvious disparity between you both. What could the pack possibly ever see in you? Gawky and unworldly clashed horrendously against their effortless prowess; at what point would they see you were a con? Unworthy and unsuitably mismatched against them.

You managed to at least brush your hair and pull it into an elastic, wash your face and brush your teeth before she pulled you impatiently from your room. Everyone, sans your parents, were already gathered in the kitchen clad in some form of nightwear or loungewear. Some of them looking slightly more dishevelled than others.

Clint smiled lazily at you from his position in front of the stovetop.

“Nice hoodie, do they do those in Bucky sizes?”

Bucky scowled at him around the half croissant which he was cramming into his mouth; flakes of warm pastry dusting the chest of his tight grey t-shirt.

You smiled at them shyly, silently wishing that you’d packed a different top; one which didn’t draw attention. Plain and unassuming – like you.

“Morning,” you greeted awkwardly with a forced yet timid smile.

Steve smirked in barely concealed amusement as he crossed to you and wrapped you in a tight hug.

“Happy Thanksgiving, love.” He pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of your head and, keeping you still tightly snared under one arm, led you over to the high bar stools where you could be a part of the activities. 

“It’s a lucky coincidence that Natasha happened to bump into you, that’s breakfast nearly ready,” he quipped and you hummed awkwardly in response, feart to reply in any other way which could be seen to perpetuate Natasha’s dishonesty. You glanced in her direction, but she gave no hint that support would be forthcoming as she brushed imaginary lint from her sweater.

Someone cleared their throat.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” you eventually parroted quietly into Steve’s left peck; your eyes braving an upward peak at the sharpness of his jawline and a beard which looked slightly more unkempt than it usually did. You wanted to rub your finger on it; but you refrained.

You eyed the piles of food which Bucky was laying out on large slate platters, occasionally stuffing morels of it into his mouth and humming in delight each time as though every mouthful was a new and exciting culinary experience.

Piles of freshly cut fruit, and warm baked pastries, jams and marmalades set into thick glass jars and labelled with the same loopy handwriting as the previous evenings cheeseboard. Crisp bacon and sausage, cream cheese and smoked salmon and capers, a platter of eggs benedict all joined the ever-growing mountain of thick fluffy pancakes until the dining table by the kitchen was crammed. The spaces not occupied with food quickly became filled with cafetières of coffee and spiced hot chocolate, tea and fruit juice. It was obnoxious and nothing like you’d ever seen before, unless you counted all those ropey Hallmark movies. Maybe this is how they would get you; they’d make you too fat to run. Or maybe they were feeders.

“What are you thinking about?” Tony’s curious voice broke you from your thoughts.

“Nothing,” you stammered. 

You had no desire to voice your concerns regarding feederism with Tony Stark. You had a suspicion that he would likely find amusement in your plight.

Your mom and dad appeared just as everything was ready, with your dad declaring this as the ultimate breakfast of champions. He was more interested in the eggs than he was in greeting you. 

“Aren’t your toes cold,” you mom asked as you padded over to the table in bare feet.

A chorus of eager and unified, “I have socks,” declaring offers came from Tony, Natasha, Bucky and Steve.

Your cheeks reddened.

“I’m okay, I think your floor is heated”. You pressed your toes down solidly as you marvelled at the warmth which seeped through the tiles beneath your feet.

Tony beamed and straightened his shoulders, “my own design,” he boasted proudly as he guided you to a seat in the centre of the table; slotting you between Bucky and your mom and effortlessly pushed your chair into place.

Bucky was busy filling a plate with morsels of the spread, a serving of eggs benedict and a sausage and a bowl with a healthy mound of glistening honeydew melon and slide the items in front of you. Champaign corks popped obnoxiously from one end the of the table and a round of mimosas arrived, courtesy of Clint; your mom plucked two from his grasp and settle one in front of you.

“Baby omega drinks?” Tony wondered aloud.

“Like a fish,” your father responded jokily before thrusting a fork full of egg into his mouth.

Your mom rolled her eyes in amusement.

“Alcohol doesn’t need to be a secret, a glass or two won’t kill her. Besides, we usually stop plying her with it just before the point where she tries to run up and down the street draped in nothing but bunting.”

“Learned that the hard way,” your dad interjected with jest.

Your cheeks heated scarlet; he was meant to be on your side. Beside you, Bucky laughed and slid your glass closer.

“Drink up, sweetheart; I think you might need it.”

Luckily for you, you managed to make it through the rest of breakfast relatively unscathed and afterwards, anyone still in pyjama’s, were ushered away to shower and change before the parade. The day was lazy as everyone lounged, splintering off into various groups although all within comfortable speaking distance.

Tony led your father in a whisky tasting and pulled from the bar an impressive array of bottles filled with varying shades of amber which your dad seemed extraordinarily jubilant about as he examined the labels; they were quickly joined by Clint and Bucky. Natasha stuck with your mother leaning close as they supped their tea; Natasha hung eagerly on your mom’s every word. Which left you with Steve. You knew him well enough by now to know that he wasn’t really the stern, formidable protagonist which the press perceived him to be and wrote about him as. You couldn’t fault them on their analysis of him, it was definitely the aura which emanated from him when he was public.

And so, you sat side by side with him on the sectional in front of the largest television screen you’d ever seen. His broad shoulder grazing yours whenever he reached forward for another handful of peanuts as you watched the parade. You picked nervously at your nail; when it was just the two of you it felt more intimate, more personal. You’d never been on a date but…was this a date? Did it pass for one? You weren’t sure; but right now, it was like sitting next to the cutest boy in your class and you really didn’t know how to act. You sat motionless, ridged. Don’t embarrass yourself, the voice in your head told you. You could feel him looking at you out of the corner of your eye, but you didn’t have the guts to look back; you couldn’t look into his perfect blue eyes and try to pretend that he wasn’t the most beautiful human you’d ever seen. It felt quite different, being on his turf rather than your own.

Eventually he asked, “the parade is coming around the corner, do you want to go out and watch it from above?”

You looked at him, your mouth tugging into a nervous smile and you nodded your assent. You padded off to find your coat and your boots and returned wrapped and ready to brace the chilly November day. Steve was waiting for you by the outside door, still dressed in a thin woollen sweater and his slippers. You made your way toward him only to be intercepted by Bucky as you crossed the room. He appeared silently in front of you and carefully looped a long soft scarf around your neck until you were bundled up to your nose; the wool was ingrained with his scent, like whisky and orange rind and you looked up at him dopily from the intense contact high which it gave you. His face fell into the most dazzling lopsided grin which crinkled the skin around his eyes as he looked down at you; he cupped the side of your face and grazed a cool thumb over the apple of your cheek.

“Don’t get cold,” he murmured softly as he stepped away.

You reached up and pushed the scarf more firmly to your nose, inhaling his smell as you watched him retreat. Steve was still waiting and when you finally did reach him, he curled his weighty arm around your shoulders and guided you out. The morning air was cold and this high up, held an even icier chill. The heat radiated from Steve’s body and warmed you like an electric blanket had been draped around you; he guided you to where the walkway curved out over the street below. The crowds of onlookers lined the sidewalks on either side as the deluge of oversized floats turned onto Park Avenue. Giant inflatables of turkeys and Santa in a smorgasbord of colour ambled their way forward as the murmur of the cheering crowd egged them on. The view was spectacular; you couldn’t see quite as well as if you had been on the street or watching on TV, but there was something to be said about looking down upon it all from your bird’s eye view high up above.

You watched in awe as they trundled forward at a snail’s pace, until your cheeks were rosy and your teeth chattered and your toes nipped. 

Bucky emerged from the interior.

“Stevie, don’t let her get cold.” He called.

You tore your eyes from the procession to look back when you heard his voice, his brow furrowed when he clocked the pink hue of your cheeks, mottled from the chill.

You had seen enough and were happy to escape back to the warmth of the faux fire where Bucky tucked you up on the armchair with a warmed blanket, which smelled delightfully like the pack, and a mug of spiced hot chocolate. 

It felt like no time had passed when dinner was called; the table laid and festooned with old fashioned paper chains in shades of reds and oranges and yellows. Everyone took their seats as the golden roasted turkey was placed on the table and ready for carving. Your parents gushed at the set up; it wasn’t unusual for them to forgo a turkey, in lieu of there only being three of you, and have chicken instead. Every side dish had been roasted to perfection and every sauce accounted for.

“You need someone to carve?” Clint asked from his seat at the end.

Bucky stepped forward, knife in hand, “Nah, so’okay. I’ve got mad knife skills,” he responded evenly as he spun the sharpened carving knife expertly around his fingers before catching it mid-air with his other fist and bringing it down in a smooth sweeping motion, lethally impaling the roasted turkey, with pinpoint accuracy along the breastbone.

A hushed silence fell over the table, with the exception of your mother, who let out a gleeful cheer and raised her glass of red wine in a one-woman toast.

“Bravo! That was very entertaining, dear.” She exclaimed.

Bucky’s face lit up at the praise, so delighted in the verbal plaudit that he failed to notice the exasperated looks of his pack mates, the blanched complexion of your father and your own slightly bewildered expression as you eyeballed the poor skewered turkey.


End file.
